a.m. when the guards opened Ramiro Fuentes’ cell.
Five years waiting for this day, five years of shouting his innocence to walls that never answered.
Now, just hours before facing his final sentence, he had only one request left.
“I want to see my daughter,” he said hoarsely.
“That’s all I ask.
Let me see Salomé before it’s all over.”
The younger guard looked at him with pity.
The older one spat on the floor.
“The condemned have no rights.
She’s an eight-year-old girl.
I haven’t seen her in three years.
That’s all I ask.” The request reached the prison director, a 60-year-old man named Colonel Méndez, who had seen hundreds of convicts pass through that corridor.
Something about Ramiro’s file had always bothered him.
The evidence was solid: fingerprints on the weapon, bloodstained clothing, a witness who saw him leaving the house that night.
